


Adrenaline decision...

by Gabriel4Sam



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Bathroom Sex, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 04:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15428820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabriel4Sam/pseuds/Gabriel4Sam
Summary: Fleeing the Empire, Obi-Wan and Padmé are exhausted and high on adrenaline. Sometimes, the best decisions are taken just like that!





	Adrenaline decision...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrennette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/gifts).



It’s three in the morning, or perhaps three in the afternoon, and Padmé is in that very peculiar state of exhaustion post panic and fight, when adrenaline is stopping her from sleep and when her body is sending contradictory signals. They have jumped into hyperspace so many time those last days in their mad escape that she isn’t even sure where in the galaxy they are…

The Empire found them three days ago, or perhaps four, she lost count, and the entire right side of her flight suit is crusted with the blood of the Commander that Sabé killed to be sure they escaped. Her handmaiden is now sleeping between the twin’s cots, the only way she can find peace when she kills.

What a mess…

Padmé finds Obi-Wan in the kitchen. He looks even worse than Sabé and herself, his face gaunt and his eyes haunted, but he’s clean, his hair still damp. His hands are trembling slightly and when he sees her gaze, he closes them around his cup of infusion, trying to hide it. He looks at the dried blood on her clothes.

“It’s not very hygienic,” he remarks, and this is so strange to say, after the last days, after the last months, after three years of life on the run, of death and mayhem and destruction, that Padmé suddenly laughs, laughs so hard her belly hurt.

He looks bemused for a moment then a low chuckle escapes him and soon, he’s joining her, and it’s rare to see him like that, so different from his usual tired dry small laugh.

“Let me make you some tea,” he finally offers and she lets him. When she takes her first sip of the beverage, she grimaces.

“Your shoulder still hurt? I could…”

“You already passed out twice this week in exhaustion. If it still hurts in a few days, perhaps I will ask you for Force healing, but right now, I would prefer not having to drag you to your bunk. You’re heavy and I’m not that strong.”

“You’re the strongest person I have ever met, and I include all the Jedi.”

It’s so rare for him to speak of his dead Order, even in passing, even to say the name Jedi, that for a moment, Padmé doesn’t know what to say, and finally choose:

“Could you help me with my hair? I don’t want to go to bed with blood in it, but with my arm…”

It’s not different from every time they had helped each other with getting clean, or with stitching wounds or applying bacta in awkward places. Living on the run, three adults and two children on too small ships, in whatever discreet places they can stash themselves for a few days, doesn’t let a lot of places for prudery or even discretion.

It should be like every other time.

It isn’t.

She’s clean and feeling so much better for it, and he’s drying her hair with a towel, to avoid her raising her arm and their gazes meet in the mirror and suddenly something catch fire.

Not literally, even if with Force Sensitive, stranger things have happened.

But their gazes meet and he isn’t Obi-Wan, family, protector, friend, the twin kind uncle, he isn’t even the Jedi that stand between them and the Inquisitors every time, no, suddenly he’s a broad shouldered man, perhaps too thin, with amazing eyes and a mouth Padmé wants to taste. And the beard. That beard. She never had a lover with a beard before, how different would it be it he used his mouth on her? Is his tongue so agile in those games too?

Is he perceiving her thoughts? Is it feeding his own sudden spark of desire?

Frankly, she doesn’t care, she only cares that the weight of his gaze is suddenly intoxicating. Feeling bold, she let herself lean against him. His body feels strong and warm and there, a strength that never failed to back her up when she needed it, and to let her go when she didn’t.

She turns to him and the first kiss is a thing of passion, hungry, demanding, nothing like the timid meeting of lips of new lovers. He grips her hips and she explores his neck, his too long hair, his shoulders, hating suddenly the heavy cloth of the spacer tunic he’s wearing. She’s dizzy with desire. It’s stupid, it will only complicate things, but she’s alive, alive, and he’s too, and the Empire didn’t take them that time and something has to give, her imposed chastity since the birth of the twins, or her sanity, and he seems totally on board.

Her bunk feels like miles away and she’s starting to consider the floor like an appropriate substitute, when he pushes her against the console of the fresher and deposit her on it, before kneeling.

Holy stars.

That mouth…she was right about that mouth. When her pants lose their fight against his hands, he doesn’t waste time and get to work and it is everything she had forgotten and so much more. She moaned, muffling the sound against her hand. He is steady, slow, doing a second time every trick that makes her shiver, a quick study and a natural at the same time and it has been too long, the adrenaline is too high: she tumbles into orgasm faster than she ever has.

He looks a little unsure when he emerges for between her legs but she doesn’t want to think. Not now.

“Come,” she asks, her hand on his collar and he raises from the floor, kisses her again, her taste on his lips, on his mouth and she doesn’t have to insist too much. Clothes feel again and he’s naked, in her arms, alive, alive, alive and warm and trusted and trusting and _alive_.

He pushes into her almost too fast but immediately stops when he sees her face and it’s very much not the ideal height, the console is making strange sounds, protesting against her weight, against his first hesitant thrusts, but it is perfect and they kiss again and again, Padmé grabbing his shoulders to encourage him, caressing his back, his ass and Obi-Wan’s lips only abandoning her mouth for her throat, covering it in kisses. His hips rock slowly, testing how they join, how she likes it, then he gains confidence, his pace picking up. The fresher is so small that she discovers she can brace a feet on the wall on the other side and then the angle change and it becomes even more interesting.

She swallows the noise that escape him at the end, more of greed and desire to keep everything of that moment than of thought about the twins and Sabé.

And then it’s finished and they are naked together, sweaty and hesitating and their usual comfortable silence broken and for a second, she fears the consequences.

“I think I’m again not clean enough for bed,” she throws like a challenge, because she refuses, she refuses to let things go awkward.

His face tries to take several expressions at the same times, then he bows, naked and sweating and smiling.

“It would be my honour to help, my lady.” And she knows they will be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit on tumblr, I have the same username, and it's mostly Star Wars, Star Wars and Star Wars again!


End file.
